Sunset
by Tavia
Summary: I've noticed there's several (okay, I can think of two) stories detailing McCoy's reaction to Kirk's death, but, to my knowledge, none from Spock's POV. So here's one. Friendship, not slash. Angst, not my usual humor.


Disclaimer: I don't own it. Duh. And I don't own the concept that Spock's got a sort of link to Kirk, by way of mindmelding, I think, which seems to be pretty generally accepted.

A/N: Greetings all! I give fair warning, this is not my usual story in that it's definite angst. I figure, there's gotta be one story up here telling the disastrous events in _Generations_ (disastrous on several levels) from Spock's point of view. (If you've written one, I sincerely apologize, I'm unaware of it.) So…I guess enjoying isn't quite the right word, but I hope you like it. [crosses fingers] I don't generally write angst, so if it's good tell me, if it's bad tell me that too but be nice please. Okay, enough of me talking, onward.

SUNSET

_2294—Earth_

As Spock crossed his apartment, he was struck by a great feeling of wrongness. He stopped, puzzled. He looked around, searching for the source. His apartment was quiet, serene. The bird sitting on a nearby window ledge continued its blithe singing undisturbed. He looked out the window, but the wrongness wasn't outside either. The streets of San Francisco were never quiet and never serene, but the bustle and rush of people and vehicles in the streets below was normal and unbothered. And gazing on all this normalcy, Spock's sense of wrongness only grew.

His senses reached out, questing for the wrongness. His eyes rested for a moment on the distant arches of the Golden Gate Bridge, lit from behind by the dying light of the setting sun. His eyes drifted up from the arches into the darkening sky above, unlit by the sun, not yet lit by the stars. And there his gaze stopped.

It was up there. Out there. In space. There was the problem. Reaching out he found where. Reaching in he found who. Searching into himself, into the parts that were not Spock yet made up Spock, he found the answer.

His lips parted and a whisper, barely more than a breath, escaped. "Jim…"

Jim was in trouble. Of this he had no doubt. He recalled that the _Enterprise-B_ was launching today, that Jim was onboard, and that it was to be a routine mission; hardly a mission but more a simple excursion. Such was clearly not the case. Orienting on his connection to Jim, he felt surging adrenaline, excitement battling with concern and worry, a wild joy and an opposing frustration. And fear. But this last, this wasn't from Jim.

The fear was Spock's. Because he knew this was wrong. There was trouble, and Jim would recklessly throw himself in front of it. He always did. And Spock knew, he didn't know how, that the gamble would be lost. A human would have called it a foreboding or a premonition. Spock did not attempt to define it. He simply knew.

Another word escaped. "No." It was repeated once, twice, a third time, and on the third repetition it was a shout, as he struggled against what was happening.

But there was nothing he could do to stop it.

It reached a climax all too quickly. One great surge of emotion and Spock fell to his knees, hands pressed to the sides of his head.

Outside, the last ray of sunlight disappeared below the horizon.

And Jim was gone.

_Seventy-eight years later—Romulus_

Spock suddenly found himself unable to concentrate on the point of logic he was discussing with his Romulan students. He blinked, shook his head slightly, tried to continue and stopped mid-sentence. The students noticed.

"Teacher?" one of the students asked. "Is something wrong?"

"Something has…come to my attention," Spock said slowly, "which requires my…immediate attention. Excuse me." He rose from his place and exited with what he knew was un-Vulcan-like haste. He ignored the concern written across his students' faces, despite how they tried to suppress it.

Spock hurried through the dim-lit corridors of the Reunification movement's compound, intent on returning to the privacy of his room and on analyzing the strange sense he was receiving.

He was back.

It was impossible. Jim Kirk had been gone for 78 years. He paused in his thoughts and realized the truth of the statement. Gone. He had been gone. He had never felt Jim die, precisely. And there are always possibilities.

He entered his room, locked the door behind him, and found his comm link. Starfleet issue, probably the only one in this area of the galaxy.

Someone would know. Captain Kirk could not possibly return to the galaxy without anyone noticing. Some people might, but not James T. Kirk. He put in a call to Starfleet Command, Earth. It would take several minutes; it was an absurdly far distance. But Starfleet Command, they would know about Captain Kirk.

That was another thought that gave him pause. Yes, the Captain would contact Starfleet. But would they be the first ones _Jim_ called? Spock did not think it was conceit to believe that he would be the first person contacted. But he was on Romulus. It took barely a heartbeat to decide who, if anyone knew, would know.

He canceled the previous call, and put in a new one to Doctor McCoy.

As he waited, he looked out the window at the rays of the setting sun. The Romulan sun, not the Terran sun, but at this time of day they looked similar, great flaming orbs slipping behind the black horizon.

He concentrated, reaching once more into himself, into a part that hadn't been there for 78 years. And there he found that something was wrong. Again. It was all there. The adrenaline. The joy and the frustration. The concern and the excitement. And the fear. Again, the fear.

It was all over even before his call to McCoy went through. He stood, arms wrapped around himself as a cataclysm of emotion swirled around him. It was when they faded that he collapsed to the ground, shouting Jim's name once to the heavens in a desperate plea that ended in a sob.

That part of Spock that was Jim Kirk was empty once more.

It didn't matter that he had been gone for 78 years. It didn't matter that Spock had never expected or anticipated seeing him again. It didn't matter that the memories they had shared were a lifetime ago. It didn't matter, it didn't make a difference.

He was his captain. And his friend. And Spock had lost him once more.

As the last light of the Romulan sun vanished below the horizon, Spock wept as he had not wept in almost eighty years.

_Two months later—Veridian III_

It was the wrong kind of bridge.

Spock pulled back from that thought, surprised at himself. 78 years. Dozens of light years. Great expense and risk on Starfleet's part to get him off of Romulus. That's what it had taken to bring him to Jim Kirk's grave. And all he could think was that it had been the wrong kind of bridge.

It had been, though. It should have been on the bridge of a starship—one named _Enterprise_, preferably—somewhere deep in space, with the stars shining down. That's where it should have happened.

Not on a dusty planet under a hot sun. Under a bridge instead of on one. It was the wrong kind of bridge.

But it wasn't really about the bridge.

He should have been there. Him. Not Captain Picard. Him, Spock, he should have been there. He was Jim's first officer, his best friend, his right hand in countless dangers and near-disasters. He should have been there. _Him_.

He knew that it was not logical.

The shadows lengthened around him, and he looked up from the rock-covered grave. The sun was dipping below the horizon. Not the Romulan sun, not the Terran sun, but one very like both of them.

As the dusk settled in and the darkness deepened, Spock remained, standing as still as though made of stone himself, a slender figure wrapped in a dark robe and shadows.

Gradually, the silence and the stillness worked on Spock, and he began to think of other things. Of the wild joy and excitement and eagerness he had sensed in Jim. Not only on those two occasions, but dozens of times over the many years. And for the circumstances…he was not reconciled to the bridge. But it was certain that the goal, the purpose, the saving of an entire planet, had been appropriate.

And no, he had not been there, precisely. But he had felt every heartthrob, every ragged breath. He knew it, and he rather thought that, somehow, one way or another, Jim had known it too.

The sky darkened, and the last bit of sunlight faded. Spock gazed into that sky. And remembered.

_Either one of us, by himself, is expendable. Both of us are not._

_Love sometimes expresses itself in sacrifice._

_There are some things worth dying for._

_Do you know the one—'All I ask is a tall ship...and a star to steer her by...' You could feel the wind at your back, about you... the sounds of the sea beneath you. And even if you take away the wind and the water, it's still the same. The ship is yours...you can feel her...and the stars are still there. _

"Godspeed, Jim," Spock whispered. "Wherever you are."

Far above him, in the infinite black sky, the stars were coming out.

A/N P.S.: All lines Spock remembers are Kirk-quotes, if you didn't catch on or recognize them. And by the way, Spock is somewhat reconciled to the situation at the end, because, well, if your character's still embittered at the end of the story why write the story, right? This doesn't, however, mean _I'm_ reconciled to any bridges. And…I got nothing else to say, review please!


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